


Then He'll Be A True Love Of Mine

by solonggaybowser



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Trans Male Harry Hart, break up and eventual make up, canon minor character death, one alcohol scene, one instance of implied homophobia, one instance of transphobic language, tgc noncompliant, two proud stubborn gits dance around their love for each other for entire decades, very mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solonggaybowser/pseuds/solonggaybowser
Summary: Harry and Hamish were once together, when they were quite young. Theymightdeign to take each other back, if one would complete an impossible task for the other.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin
Kudos: 12





	Then He'll Be A True Love Of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the english folk song "Scarborough Fair"

It was over, he had told her.

"What are you talking about? I thought we were... Why?"

Hamish frowned and looked into her eyes, level with his own. "It's just how it has to be."

He truly liked the lass, and it pained him too to have to do this. But there was no way around it: he could never love her the way she wanted him to. And as if that wasn't enough, he couldn't explain why.

"So—that's it? We're breaking up, and you don't even have a proper reason?" Her voice took on an accusatory edge, he noted with consternation.

He had to keep a secret, though, didn't he? She would do the same were she in his place, wouldn't she? "There _is_ a reason; I just—I can't tell you. Not just you, it's everyone. Please, try to understand—"

"How _can_ I, Hamish?! Why can't you just be honest with me? Is it something I'd done?"

No, not in the least, he wanted to assure her. Gentle, anxious, and faint-hearted in spite of her stature, she would take such pains to trouble as few people, occupy as little space as possible. She could never bring herself to hurt him, or so he believed.

Everyone has their limits. He scarcely had uttered a syllable when she steeled her gaze and interrupted, "All right, tell me or don't; it doesn't matter. Because if you think for a second I'd beg a scumbag like you to take me back—"

"Look, the only way I'd take you back is if you turned into a man, and we both know that _that_ will _never_ happen!"

The words had rushed out in a blind, defensive panic more than anything else, and when she flinched and her eyes flashed with a terrible venom, it seemed Hamish was right to leave her after all.

Except... no, something was odd about this. That look was hate, mixed with hurt. Had he raised his voice by that much? Certainly his words could not have wounded her so, even in the heat of his adolescent thoughtlessness.

Before he could say something or even consider what he was supposed to say, she turned her back to him and left without another word. Had they not just broken up, perhaps he would have followed after her, asking forgiveness and clarity. But he only stood there, not understanding.

Not that it mattered, he soon came to realize. She was returning to England, he was never leaving Scotland, and they would never see each other again. That was the end—bitter and confusing as it was—of that.

* * *

The trainees were dismissed. He was just starting to unpack his stuff when one of the other boys approached him.

"Hamish."

So he knew his name, which was almost interesting. Hamish didn't bother to turn. "Do I know you?" he asked, indifferent.

"I daresay you do."

Now this caught his attention, and not in a good way. He faced the impudent lad, who was by every metric an overprivileged lily-white sassenach, just like all the others here (his roguish good looks notwithstanding). "What's with you?" Hamish asked, his tone cool, though a faint furrow formed in his brow.

The boy, wholly unmoved, locked eyes with his. "Don't you remember me? My name is Hart. Harry Hart."

At this, Hamish had to scowl. Who did this guy think he was, saying his name like it would _mean_ anything to him? He'd never met a bloke named Hart in his life—

Hart. _Hart_... Dear God.

Hamish hadn't recognized him—how could he? But a second look and there was no mistaking it: before him stood the brown-eyed, broad-shouldered sweetheart from days gone by. He was so certain that he would never see that person again, and his last memory of his former beloved would have been...

All he could say was, "You've really done it."

Harry's mouth twitched, for an instant, into a smirk.

And though he hid it from his face, it remained unmistakably in his voice when he declared, "There is something you should know, Hamish. _I_ will be the next Agent Galahad. And if it happens that you have your own place here at Kingsman... then you may be mine once more." He let his self-assured gaze linger on Hamish a moment longer as he turned and walked away.

Who the _hell_ did that guy think he _was_ , talking to Hamish like that? And more importantly, more _infuriatingly_ , why did Hamish just let all of that happen? A million biting retorts bubbled in his head; some had even fully formed prior to the end of the conversation. If he had just picked any of them, rather than let Harry get away with that kind of cheek...

But the most important question of all, as far as Hamish's dazed mind was concerned... When did Hart become so...?

* * *

A knock at the door. He glanced up from the papers on his desk. "Come on in."

It was Harry, just the fellow he had sent for, who strutted into the office—and even with that air of chagrin about him, it seemed that he still could not help _strutting_ everywhere.

"Well then," Harry said stiffly, "I presume you expect me to congratulate you."

"No—" began Hamish truthfully, but then backtracked, "Well, _yes_ , that would be nice..."

The two men looked at each other in silence.

Hamish gestured, expectant, to the agent, who sighed and relented, "Congratulations."

"On?" prompted Hamish, disinclined to let Harry get away with so little.

His words clipped as neatly as his nails, Harry continued, "On your promotion to Merlin, head enchanter of Kingsman Tailors & Intelligence. There, satisfied?"

"Hm. I suppose." Merlin settled in his chair. "But no, that's not the reason why I've summoned you."

"Let's have it, then."

"Agent Lancelot will soon retire."

"I'm aware, thank you."

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

Harry's exasperated glare suggested he did not especially want to hear it, though he remained dutifully silent.

"I'd like to offer my assistance in selecting a candidate."

He held his glare a beat longer before blinking at Merlin. "Sorry, what? Why?"

"Because I believe your judgment will, in the long run, result in a better future for Kingsman, but that won't come to pass unless your candidate makes it much further than the second test."

"He _should have_ ," griped Harry bitterly. "He was just as capable as any of those insufferable blue-blood boys, but he was _discriminated_ against."

"I know, Harry. Believe me, I despise it too," Merlin said, trying to calm Harry out of his righteous anger, "and with me around, your next pick'll get a fairer shake. But it won't be enough: our colleagues, our _boss_ isn't ready for what you're trying to do. It's because of them that this will all end in failure."

"Be that as it may, change won't happen on its own; it must start _somewhere_."

"Well, there's gotta be something else, something... more subtle that you can do. You're a spy, for Pete's sake; can't you think of something?"

Harry's resolve seemed to only strengthen. "I'll not be contented with baby steps, and I shan't sit on my hands and wait for someone else to make some real changes. It starts with us, Merlin, don't you understand? The real power lies not with the _king_ , but with the king's men."

Folding his arms, Merlin regarded his friend not unkindly. To be sure, Harry was a stubborn, prideful dandy—but on the other side of that coin was a man of principle, who stopped at nothing to set things right and looked fit as all hell while he did it. Still... that didn't mean Merlin had to make anything easy for him, now did it? "Clearly, this is important to you," he began thoughtfully.

"Oh, so you've noticed."

"How about we raise the stakes a bit?"

Wary but attentive, Harry spared a glance at Merlin. "In what manner?"

"If your proposal becomes a Kingsman agent, then I will take you back."

He looked again to Merlin, eyes at last softened. "You mean it? Truly?"

"I do mean it, yes—"

 _"Ha!"_ he cried, triumphant; Merlin called upon every millisecond of his training to keep from starting. "You're a _fool_ , Hamish. Already I have scouted the perfect candidate: the task is as good as done."

The sudden outburst and dead certainty had Merlin a touch worried, he had to admit to himself. Still he coolly replied, "We'll just see about that."

"Oh, we will, indeed."

* * *

Merlin found the door ajar, more light seeping in than out. Tentatively, he pushed it open. In the office stood Harry, hunched over his desk, a deep grimace etched onto his face as he stared at the papers and screens in the sole light of the lamp.

And Harry did not react, did not acknowledge Merlin's presence. They remained so, Harry unmoving, Merlin hovering closer to the doorway than to the desk and frankly beginning to feel quite stupid. In the wake of tragedy, he had known he needed to find his closest friend, but now that he was here, he didn't know what to say.

Lee was good, and they lost him. He had left behind a wife and child. And the last thing that should be on Merlin's mind was that task, that _ridiculous_ game...

But they nearly died in that blast. He would have died without holding Harry's hand once more.

Now that they were both here, alive and well... If Merlin would only concede the game, admit that Harry had come so close... lift a hand from that desk and kiss it...

"It's not over yet," said Harry, jolting Merlin from his thoughts.

He switched off the light and brushed past Merlin into the bright lights of the corridor. Walking away, he vowed:

"On my life, I'll find another."

* * *

Merlin sat at his desk, head propped against his hand, faintly considering the boxes stacked by the opposite wall. The day had been spent helping Eggsy move into his new home, and whatever had to be removed to make space or didn't make sense for him to inherit, had been temporarily relocated to Merlin's possession.

How could Eggsy do it, living in that house? For Merlin it would be as if living in a mausoleum. But... it was Eggsy's choice, and his right as Galahad.

As a knight of Kingsman.

"Well, Harry, you've done it again," Merlin mumbled into his palm.

He kept staring at those blasted boxes. With nothing else to do that night, he began to notice a profound emptiness settling into his heart. Well, that wasn't entirely true: Merlin knew he ought to be doing something with those boxes. At the very least they should be moved into Kingsman storage, a better place for which he could put off doing something more constructive with them.

Instead he found himself with a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. The drink was poured and sipped at, listlessly, his mind elsewhere.

Harry was gone. To a painfully literal degree: his body was unable to be located. Where it could have went, what might have happened to it in the chaos of V-Day—it pained Merlin to think about. _But_ —but there were scarcely any traces of him: some blood stains where he had fallen, and no more. Where was he now? If he had not sustained such a terrible wound, perhaps Merlin could envision him alive and well, about to enter through that very door and boast—with that affected modesty and understatement he had perfected—of a job well done...

"I have another task for you."

He paused, imagining Harry's indignant protest.

"Yes, Harry, that _is_ cheating. Why don't you come here and tell me off?"

He quaffed the rest of his drink. Staring into the empty glass, he murmured, "That's the task, anyway. To come back."

_Come back and be mine._

* * *

"He's recovering very well," said Ginger Ale, as she led Merlin down the hallway, "and he'll be happy to see you." They stop at a door. "I'm guessing you'd like to talk to him alone?"

"I would, yes."

"Go on, then."

He approached the door, then looked back at her. "I can't thank you enough."

"Well, your folks saved the world. I think you did us the bigger favor," she responded warmly.

 _You've saved mine,_ he thought as Ginger walked away.

He knocked on the door, a great relief washing over him when Harry's voice called out, "Yes, come in," as if at last free from a prison.

Inside, Harry was sat up in his bed. The hospital gown and the bandages wrapped around his head did nothing to diminish his radiance. He set aside a book, and he seemed to light up upon seeing his visitor. "Merlin. You're here," he said, almost disbelieving.

"Of course. Nowhere else I'd rather be." Merlin smiled as he told the truth.

"Will you sit? By me?"

"Well, of course," he repeated. _Nowhere else I'd rather be._

Harry smiled as well, looking over Merlin as he approached. Then his look turned rueful, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, Hamish."

"For what? You couldn't have known what Valentine was hiding up his sleeve. If anything, I'm the one—"

"No. No. Not that. I... I've been such an obstinate _fool_. All these years, faffing about this stupid game. Because I've let my own pride blind me."

When did Harry learn a measure of genuine humility? It only softened Merlin's heart further; he had entered the room wholly willing to stay by Harry's side, with his vainglory and iron will and all. "To be fair, you had reason to be cross with me at the start."

"Nevertheless." Harry laid his head on the pillow and sighed at the ceiling. "Hamish... my friend... would you forgive me?"

"Well, by my reckoning, you've won anyway."

Harry's head snapped back up. "I have?"

Grinning fondly at Harry's sudden interest, Merlin explained, "Aye. Following his outstanding performance on V-Day, your proposal, Eggsy Unwin, has been knighted into Kingsman, as determined by a unanimous vote from all surviving agents. And afterwards, I broke the rules, insofar as there were any."

"How so?"

"I skipped your turn and assigned another task. Which was for you to come back to me." A vague gesture of his hands attempted to sum up decades of tender feelings and months of grief beyond measure, building up to all the uncertainty and anticipation of the present moment. "And you did."

"I see." Harry nodded pensively. "Then I must ask you something." Equally hesitant, and hopeful, he looked up at Merlin. "May I be your love once more?"

Merlin held out a hand, palm upturned. "Only if I can be yours."

"From now on, always," promised Harry. He placed his hand in Merlin's, who pressed it to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone keeping track: other projects are still in progress. hope to show you something soonish


End file.
